On the Corner Of West Elm and Bailey
by tinyvoice
Summary: AU. 3x4. Trowa is a big city transplant to a small Virginia town. Spurred by the cheap provocation of his new friends, they all enter an abandoned house with a terrible past. please r&r MM
1. Default Chapter

New England played host to many old houses, some turned into historical monuments, museums, political offices, and the such. However, a few were yet to be touched, a couple abandoned here and there. In some sparsely inhabited town in Virginia, the Winner mansion on West Elm loomed like a dark castle in the bright sky.  
  
Many legends and stories shrouded the house in mystery. One more commonly accepted tale was associated with the fifth and final generation to live there, though some contested as to whether the fifth generation had really be the last. It was said that the head of the large estate had fallen victim to a deterioration of the brain. And, in his crazed state, he had somehow managed to murder all thirty of his children and then himself on the eve of Christmas when his only heir had recently turned fifteen.  
  
Most people passed the house by as quickly as their feet would allow, fighting the feeling of eyes on their backs. It was unclear as to whether this was the work of overactive imaginations, or whether there really were ghostly specters taking note of their every move. Small town myths were infectious.  
  
Quatre pressed his forehead to the glass panes of the window. His thin, delicate fingers longingly caressed the glass, the image that lay beyond it. It was snowing, covering everything in a soft blanket of pristine white powder. The school bus would pass by soon dropping off three youths on the street corner across the way from the Winner estate. He knew them all, though not by name. He had watched them enviously for years, though, how many, he could not say.  
  
How long he himself had existed, he could not say. It was all a blur. He was aware of events, their sequence, but time seemed a foreign instrument. There were clocks in the house. Large ornate clocks that no longer ticked, simply looming at the ends of narrow hallways, and calendars, all old, curled and yellowed on the walls. Everything hung heavy with time, unfathomable time. Time that had once held real importance then was gradually lost.  
  
He realized with faint surprise that he had been slumping when he perked up at the sound of the bus. He counted the bodies descending the steps, one, two, three…four? He shifted in his seat to get a better view.   
  
First, he took note of those he knew. There was the expressive young man with the long braid, his friend with short brown hair, and the third of the group was the youth with sleek black hair. All of the young men were similar in height with the braided boy taller by maybe two or three inches. The newcomer was taller than him, though.  
  
He wore a black turtleneck and slacks of an earthen shade. He stood apart from the three familiar friends, unobtrusive but not unnoticeable.  
  
The youth with the braid pointed towards the house directing everyone's attention. Quatre wasn't sure whether it would be practical to blush or not. They couldn't see him, but he felt studied anyway. He shied away from their collective stare.  
  
--  
  
"That over there is the Winner mansion. It's been abandoned for as long as anyone can remember. There's a little neat story that goes along with it. Do you wanna hear it?"  
  
Two disdainful groans.  
  
"A guy lived there, Mr. Winner Lord Winner Winner Winner….ah, heck whoever he was, he had a ton of children, like…thirty-forty give or take. He went insane one night on the Eve of Christmas and killed all of his kids, one big gory mess! After that, he waited for midnight until he finally offed himself. Then, all the servants that had been working at the house had to bury everyone in the morning-The End."  
  
"Enlightening as usual, Maxwell."  
  
"Thankew Wu," the so-called Maxwell said sweetly and threw his arms in a wide arc. "My adoring audience! I'm here Tuesdays and Thursdays!"  
  
Receiving no response from his mostly tight lipped companions, Duo continued, "And, ofcourse…we all know that that house is haunted."  
  
That one earned a couple derisive snorts.  
  
"In your dreams."  
  
"My dreams are positively lovely, thank you!"  
  
"If you're a retard."  
  
"Hey! I resent that!"  
  
"I had a feeling you would."  
  
"That's cold, Wu…so cold."  
  
"My name is Wufei if you'd kindly remember it."  
  
"Oh, give me an A for effort!" Maxwell taunted.  
  
That got Wufei riled. Without any real time to form actual intent, he had Maxwell's rope like braid secure in his fist.  
  
"Help! Help! I'm being attacked by a rabid martial arts man! Heero!"  
  
The youth known as Heero at that moment decided to turn the other way. "I saw nothing."  
  
"Oh Trowa!" Duo cried tugging his own braid trying to cut his abused head some slack.  
  
Trowa had been preoccupied with staring at the Winner house and almost didn't hear him. "Hm?"  
  
"Save me! You're a rough and tough western guy! Lasso him or something!"  
  
"Not everyone in Texas goes to rodeo," Trowa informed him quietly.  
  
"You all suck!" Duo cried just before he was released from Wufei's iron like grip.  
  
"Cry me a river," Wufei said dusting non-existent dirt from his hands. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm headed home."  
  
"Hey, we're coming!" Duo called after his retreating backside.  
  
--  
  
His breath made no mark on the window as he leaned in closer to it. What had they been saying? What curious verbal dance had led to the familiar anchoring of the longhaired boy by his braid?  
  
He almost jumped when the familiar voice of his servant interrupted his thoughts.  
  
"What was that, Rashid?" he asked, facing away from the window.  
  
"I was asking what held your attention so fixedly."  
  
Quatre glanced back at the boys who were growing smaller and smaller amidst the white snow outside. "I want to go out there," he declared, turning back.  
  
"You know that is impossible," Rashid replied.  
  
"Why is it impossible?" Quatre demanded softly.  
  
"We've never been away from this house. Your father would not approve."  
  
"I don't need his royal seal of approval," Quatre said bitterly knowing that he didn't mean a word of it. "How do we know that we can't do something if we don't try, anyway?"  
  
"There's no telling what might happen if we leave this house. It is in your best interests to stay put," Rashid tried to explain. "…It might be dangerous."  
  
"What's dangerous? I'm dead!" Quatre countered.  
  
Rashid flinched, and Quatre hung his head low. Embarrassment burned his skin. He knew that he had crossed the line.  
  
"I'm sorry," he offered receiving a nod.  
  
"I'm sorry as well…" Rashid assured him before leaving, opening and closing the door even though it wasn't necessary. Just a force of habit.  
  
Quatre blinked back a couple tears and returned to the image outside. The scenery had changed over the years, and he'd gladly embrace oblivion for just one day to experience it. But, honestly, he was afraid to chance it. He'd thought of it so often, committed himself to the idea, and then backed out at the last possible moment. Absently, he touched his fingers to the dusty glass and willed them through. When his fingers were about the breach the other side, he pulled back suddenly and cradled his hand as if it had just been burned.  
  
Coward, he chided himself.  
  
They all parted ways when the reached the intersection of West Elm and Bailey. Trowa turned left on Bailey with a shadow of an uttered good-bye.  
  
He'd barely lived up north for more than a week, and already, he'd gained three steady acquaintances. It wasn't unusual for him to just "fall" into a group, though it normally took a little longer.  
  
The frigid Virginia winter was a stark contrast to the mild Texas winters he'd grown so accustomed to, not the mention, the trees were definitely larger here.  
  
He took a moment to glance back at his progress through the snow-covered ground. It was pleasing in a way to see the indentations from his shoes stretching so far behind him. The only way to see any trail even remotely resembling it in Texas would be to take a long walk outside on the hottest day of the year with black rubber soled shoes.  
  
He relished the cool air that nipped his face, but at the same time, he missed the balmy winds that had blown though his hair only so many days before.  
  
Idly, he kicked up the snow at his feet and watched its misty descent. He had never been witness to real snow until the day that his adoptive sister whisked him away up into winter land.  
  
Bitterness swept through him as he remembered his previous guardian. He hadn't been unkind, never lifted his hands to him, never raised his voice. In truth, he'd been a pleasant man with boundless patience.  
  
"Nathaniel Barton," Trowa murmured watching his steps imprint in the snow. He'd actually, most of his life, called him "Nate," not "dad" or "father" or "papa." Nate had been little more to him than an acquaintance and something possibly resembling an older sibling.  
  
Nate had been an attorney for the state, a prosecutor. He had been good at his trade. His living was based off of which, what he kindly termed, "scum" he could stick with the right penalty. He feared nothing and no one, for as the almighty courts were his witness, he was always in the right. Apparently countless juries had seen that too.  
  
Trowa had never been permitted to go into Nate's office. The curious times that he had found himself in there, staring blankly at the shelves and shelves of books, the sheaves of paper strewn everywhere in ordered stacks, Nate had appeared like an apparition and told him simply to "get out." There was no ire in his tone or gestures, which had served to confound Trowa on numerous occasions. Honestly, he'd hoped to anger him sometimes.  
  
When Nate invited his male friends to their house, Trowa acted cold to them. Really, he didn't like them, he didn't know them, nor did he care. His mind itched with the vague sense that these strangers were touching something that was his.  
  
It bothered him a little, that Nate never explained his behavior. He never made excuses when Trowa pretended not to hear questions posed by his friends. He never pushed him, never saved him when he got himself into trouble that he couldn't help himself out of. Whatever irritating schemes Trowa concocted eventually ended up with him right where he started and twice as frustrated as before.  
  
Everything in that house had been passive, so painfully passive.  
  
The toe of his boot clunked against the steps leading up to the porch.  
  
I'm home, his brain supplied for him as he looked up befuddled at the quaint little house he and his adoptive sister now shared. Catherine, he reminded himself as he took the first few steps up.  
  
He stopped for a moment on the top step and took one last look back at the path he had come. This place was all alien to him.  
  
As he opened the door, Catherine's voice drifted from the toasty interior, "Welcome home!"  
  
Moonlight kissed the white expanse of land lending it a pale blue sheen of color twinkling in the night like thousands of tiny lights. Quatre slept by the window for lack of anything else to occupy his time. His sleep was a dreamless one, a hollow void where no memory or fantasy dare tread. It was the only peace he knew, and yet, did not know.  
  
The sound of intense sniffing roused him.  
  
"Yes?" he whispered, as his eyes fluttered open. There was a stag just outside watching him intensely through the glass.  
  
A smile crept unbidden up Quatre's face. He knew this deer well. He willed his hands to become like a strong wind as he opened the window.  
  
The stag poked its snout in, and Quatre's whispering hands ran indulgently along its face.  
  
"Schroeder," Quatre murmured against his fur. Its thick breath dampened Quatre's almost intangible cheek.  
  
He'd known this deer since it was just a fawn stumbling around in constant pursuit of its mother. How long ago that had been, he couldn't tell.  
  
Animals, for some reason, seemed drawn to Quatre. He supposed that it might be due to the energy of his vestigial spirit. Once, he remembered waking with dozens of cats crowded around and even within his form.  
  
The stag licked the air loudly and wheezed in warning. Other deer, almost camouflaged within the shelter of light and shadow raised their heads. Their ears turned in alertness. Soon the whole lot of them were wheezing. One by one, they sprinted away silently like ghosts. The howl of wild dogs was the spur in Schroeder's side as he finally followed the others into the dark sanctuary of the wood. Quatre watched him go.  
  
"Good night and god's speed," he whispered.  
  
His only joy was the animals.  
  
The only entities that could really see him.  
  
Quatre came into awareness when the first rays of the sun hit the window.  
  
Dead leaves danced across the wooden floor with aid from the open window. A few broad oak leaves fluttered through Quatre's outstretched hand. He was aware that there were things inside him that didn't belong to him. He felt them, but at the same time, didn't feel them.  
  
He looked back into his body and saw a few animals nestled in his abdomen. Cats. Always cats. It didn't bother him, though.  
  
"Good morning," he whispered allowing himself a while more of sheltering the little fuzzies.  
  
Eventually, though, he decided to raise himself up to do his morning person watching.  
  
Heero and Wufei were already up at the bus stop.  
  
Later, Duo joined them.  
  
Even later than that, the newest addition to their group.  
  
Quatre willed his fingers through the glass again, every fiber of his being wanting to breach the other side. He wanted to see these people up close, maybe even thank them for their companionship, though offered unawares.  
  
The cats joined him at the sill watching the street with him.  
  
"I want to meet them," he whispered, not daring to speak his desire any louder. Then he began a soft poem of sorts, "O Dearest, canst thou tell me why the rose should be so pale? And why the azure violet should wither in the vale? And why the lark, should in the cloud, so sorrowfully sing? And why from the loveliest balsam-buds, a scent of death should spring…thou forsakest me…"  
  
One of the more adventurous felines leapt from the sill during his soliloquy followed hesitantly by two others headed in the direction of the bus stop.  
  
Trowa, though he hadn't been keenly aware of it, had been watching the house. It was a scar in the sky.  
  
It seemed more like a dark apparition rather than a former residence.  
  
Then, out of the window, he saw the shadows of cats slink out from the dark mansion traveling in single file. One stopped just outside of the shadow of the building while two slightly more adventurous ones continued onward. The next cat stopped at the edge of the wild growth spilling over the sidewalk. The final feline looked both ways before crossing the street. It seemed to be coming just for Trowa.  
  
On his side of the asphalt, it did come to him and pressed itself to his legs weaving between his feet. Its black fur making it look less real than it felt.  
  
Trowa turned to see if his friends were noticing any of this. Apparently, it wasn't creepy enough to catch their attention.  
  
He reached down to pet the little creature, but it shied from his hand, flattening itself and slinking along the ground.  
  
Just as he was about to give up, the cat sprang up onto all fours and dashed back across the street rounding up its siblings and leapt back into the house from whence it had come.  
  
Trowa was still looking stupefied at the house when the bus came.  
  
Quatre stared at the ceiling of his empty room. He hadn't left that room for uncountable years.  
  
Iria, she and his other sisters were just upstairs in their rooms. He hadn't seen them since his death. How had he died? He could not remember, much like everything else in his sort of half-existence. His father was in the house too. Somewhere, maybe even in the walls.  
  
Sometimes, Quatre could hear the papers being shuffled in the desk upstairs.  
  
Whatever his family did in the afterlife was of none of his affair.  
  
He looked at the cats in the window and began to tell himself more broken poetry. He could remember knowing all of the lyrics perfectly at one time, but much the same as everything else, even the awareness of knowledge was slowly, day by day, ebbing away.  
  
"Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, so do our minutes hasten to their end…" he began.  
  
It was hard to concentrate.  
  
The house haunted him. There was something in there, and it wasn't just cats.  
  
Trowa scribbled aimlessly on his spiral.  
  
Maybe there was something to all those claims of bad luck and dangerous spirits involving the residence on West Elm.  
  
Whatever the case, it seemed to be slowly weaving a siren's spell around him.  
  
Dare he mention his reservations to the others?  
  
He glanced pointedly at Duo, who was carefully constructing a paper football palace on his desk, and thought better of it.  
  
They would laugh at him. Give his thoughts no credence.  
  
Hell, he wouldn't even give his thoughts credence.  
  
After he got off the bus that afternoon, he was looking at the house again.  
  
It was beckoning to him.  
  
A hearty clap on his shoulder made him almost jump out of his skin.  
  
"So, you want to go in there?" Duo asked. "I'll go too if you're scared."  
  
"Don't trust him," Wufei warned shouldering his satchel.  
  
Heero made a noise of agreement, "Duo is a class A, bonafide wuss."  
  
Duo's fingers dug into Trowa's shoulder mirroring his indignant embarrassment. "Hey, you guys are invited to come along!"  
  
"Sure," Wufei replied rising to the challenge.  
  
"Wuss," Heero added following Duo's hurried progress across the street.  
  
They both laughed.  
  
"Oh, laugh it up," Duo snorted. "Jackasses."  
  
Trowa's stride helped along greatly by Duo's determined pushing slowed the closer and closer they all got to the house. What exactly was lurking there in the shadows? Why was he so sure that something was lurking there?  
  
When they got to standing directly in front of the structure, no one was really enthusiastic about continuing onward. Eventually, it was Heero that took it upon himself to cross the threshold of the semi-circle staircase leading up to the door. The snow crunched underfoot, deep as if it'd never been touched. Which, it doubtlessly hadn't.  
  
Duo, Wufei, and Trowa followed after him.  
  
The door didn't open until Heero, Wufei, and Trowa laid their combined weight on it. The years of crust and decay crumbled and cracked as the door gave way.  
  
When no spooks rushed out of the poorly lit gloom, Duo regained his cheerful disposition and walked ahead of everyone. His boots churned up years and years of undisturbed dust throwing his friends simultaneously into allergic fits.  
  
"It's a lot bigger inside than it looked from the street," he observed, pleased. His voice echoed in the vast emptiness making the innumerable cobwebs quiver. The foyer itself was large enough to be a little house all on its own. "This place isn't so scary," he said grateful for even the muted sunlight that filtered through the filmy windows.  
  
Even with that lighthearted declaration, Trowa felt extremely anxious. Not being of a really collective mind, the little entourage strayed off exploring by themselves.  
  
Trowa wandered off somewhere in the general direction he figured the cats must have originated from. He hadn't realized how extensive the house was by just looking at it. He got lost once or twice taking idle turns in maze-like halls.  
  
Every room he opened was empty, undisturbed. A ways into his exploration, he came upon a less-dingy door. It yielded surprisingly easy under his hand.  
  
In the middle of the mostly empty room was a slumbering boy, cats at the windowsill.  
  
Trowa was surprised out of his mind feeling a little more than internally hysterical until his rational mind kicked in. Maybe that guy was just a runaway that got in through the open window. Though he'd never known any guy that ran away in the dead of winter wearing nothing but a pair of trousers and a paper-thin dress shirt. It didn't even look like they were from the current century.  
  
The boy, himself, had a sort of aristocratic air rare now a days. His hair was trimmed to a length about halfway down his ears, the color of white gold. Every feature fit perfectly, not even a slight crook in his nose to mar his countenance.  
  
Trowa wondered whether he should say something.  
  
Just then, though, the boy woke. He rose to his feet with as much poise and grace as a valedictorian of a tea ceremony school. He did not notice Trowa, but instead went to stand at the open window. His movements not making a sound. His actions were those of countless repetition that he didn't even bother to look about himself anymore.  
  
Just how long had he been camping out here?  
  
"H-" Trowa began a pathetic attempt at a greeting ending in him just breathing heavily.  
  
The boy turned from the window, his bright blue eyes widening partly in fear, partly in wonder. And in an instant, his form lost shape. The colors that comprised his being grew indistinct, and faded until he couldn't even be seen at all.  
  
The hairs on the back of Trowa's neck stood on edge as he stared, dumbfounded, at the empty spot where the other boy should have been. People don't vanish, not like that.  
  
He reached out and felt the vacant air. Maybe it had been a hallucination.  
  
But his gut told him that there was no conceivable way that it could have possibly been a figment of his imagination, his mind simply wasn't romantic enough to conjure such an image, and what's more, he could still feel the effects of the burning blue of those eyes.  
  
He wondered whether he should tell the others about his experience but wasn't sure whether they'd believe it. Duo probably would, but, the other two were more skeptical and scathing in their remarks. Was Duo trustworthy? There would be nothing more miserable than having a bunch of country boys at school making fun of the city-boy-psycho. Trowa wasn't one to treasure his reputation, but at times, he did feel the need to protect it.  
  
He left to room in peace, at the same time, making a half-promise to return to it.  
  
His curiosity was piqued, and there was no other help for it.  
  
After a small time wandering, he found the foyer again and headed upstairs where he could hear the others making noise.  
  
They were rummaging around the study.  
  
Duo pulled out a thick, decaying volume and made a face. "You can't even read the title on this anymore. Something like, Love and War or something clichéd like that…No wait, Modern Economics." He opened the book to its title page. "Modern in 1760." He whistled wonderingly.  
  
Wufei was studying the walls with a strange interest, "Look, Heero…there's blood spatter here too. Maybe those stories really are true."  
  
"I'm sure that there's something else to it," Heero said scrutinizing the rust red marks with Wufei.  
  
Trowa stood in the doorway a moment more before raising his voice a little, "What do you mean…'here too'?"  
  
Wufei turned to face him, "Didn't you look at the other rooms?"  
  
Trowa shook his head.  
  
"Follow me," Wufei sighed pushing past him.  
  
Together, they passed through to the east wing of the house. Among the first few doors, Wufei chose a random one and opened it roughly.  
  
Inside were the tattered remains of a lady's room. Gray, molded lace hung here and there and lay helter-skelter. The centerpiece of the room, the large queen-sized canopy bed sat hunched like a beast. Faded red painted the sheets in a most grotesque fashion.  
  
"Are all the rooms like this?" Trowa asked brushing a floating cobweb out of his face.  
  
Wufei shook his head curtly, "No, not all of them. A good amount of them, though."  
  
Struck with a feeling, Trowa began to open the doors to every room in the east wing. All of them were feminine.  
  
The last door, though, led to a more stark room. There was no blood there, but there was plenty of destruction in its place. Books littered the floor, fabrics were torn, and all individuality that had gone into the room was cast into an abyss of nothingness.  
  
It's his room, Trowa's mind screamed excitedly though his face betrayed nothing. Why isn't he in his room?  
  
Trowa ventured a ways inside the room. There were no rusty blood spots anywhere or mummified appendages. He began poking around for pictures, clues about the boy, that through heated irrational thought, he concluded, had resided within that room. He ran across a volume titled Common Sense written by Thomas Paine, a 1776 publication and a few other mildly familiar sounding books and papers.  
  
Everything about the room was extremely impersonal, not even a diary or framed picture.  
  
Trowa lifted the bed mattress partway and found a leather-bound book resting underneath. He grabbed it and let the mattress drop stirring up an explosion of dust that made him gag.  
  
TBC! 


	2. II

"What's that?" Wufei asked from the doorway.  
  
"I don't know," Trowa replied reaching behind himself and dropping the volume into his backpack. "I'm done. I'm going home, now."  
  
"Sure," Wufei said stepping back to allow Trowa passage. "I'll tell them that you left."  
  
"Thanks," Trowa mumbled concentrating more on the feel and sound of his shoes on the dense wood floor than what he said, as if he wanted to make sure that it was all there, that it was all real. Walking down the crescent stairs, he couldn't shake the vague fear that they would suddenly become immaterial and send him plummeting to the yawning abyss below.  
  
At the foot of the stairs he had a last look around. He thought that he could see phantom shapes flitting in the half darkness of the unlit corners, but that, he attributed to the anxiousness that his earlier encounter had stirred.  
  
"Goodbye," he whispered.  
  
November 15, 1774  
  
It is coming soon. The strings of rebellion are braiding together, creating a stronger, more centralized ideal. The epitome of our time that will define generations to come. Britain is turning her eyes steadily westward. She sees Massachusetts in the target of her turrets. The presence of British soldiers is on the rise in large cities but has managed to leave this little spot of Virginia untainted, though the land here is sewing the seeds of dissent reigning in higher yields with each political injustice that fans on the ears of the common man.  
  
I furnished Thaddeus, this morning, with considerable funds from my personal allowance to acquire arms. Some smithies are able to strike a gun and fashion bullets, but at a considerable price that places our flowering resistance at a grievous disadvantage to our British counterparts. I have established an informant within the forces of an influential British general, henceforth, "seventy-twenty." He has agreed to deal us British arms at a more favorable price than our own gunsmiths. We've decided to invest in stockpiling these things, basic materials for facing this kind of conflict that seems all but imminent, right now.  
  
Like the momentum of a wave gaining force and speed as it nears the shore, I feel the feeling of this nation hastening towards the shore to crash against the rocks in an explosion of foam, scattering pebbles and shells. Like that, our order will be made and rearranged to suit us as a nation. I strongly believe in that.  
  
Trowa set the book down. It seemed void of personal notes or anything non-political. From what Trowa was able to gather so far was that: the owner of the journal was going against his father's wishes and getting involved in the contemporarily known American Revolution, he was a key logistical strategist and financier, and that he planned to serve as an American battle strategist when the revolution would finally begin. Considering his language, he didn't seem to look forward to the coming conflict, but, nor did he shy from it. More so than anything, he seemed resolute to protect his fellow countrymen and establish a government that conformed to common American sentiment, which sounded reasonable and innocent, enough.  
  
He closed his eyes and imagined the specter that he'd seen once more. Each time he tried to recall that apparition's form, it grew less and less definite. He knew the rudimentary features: blond, blue eyes, short, thin, pale, and nice. His mind, however, was incapable of processing that information into a full image. He remembered that face, but when he visualized it, it didn't seem perfect enough. It seemed as if his mind was working miserably with an etch-a-sketch to try to recollect something for him that it was simply unable to supply. He wanted to see that person again, to ask his name.  
  
He leaned back in his chair bracing his palms against the desk to tip him back at an angle so that he could see outside. Snow was coming down slowly reminding him vaguely of Fantasia and the sugar plum fairies, enchanting.  
  
The fibers that made up his being slowly wove back together. That boy's invasion into his space had sent ripples into him and muddled his image. The more as one his being became, the worse he felt.  
  
Nauseating self-consciousness rolled over his head and made his heart flounder. No one had seen him for such a long time. He couldn't remember what he looked like. He couldn't recall whether he was pleasing to see. What color were his eyes? His hair? Things that he hadn't thought about in centuries.  
  
That person, though, he was nice to see. His eyes, struck like ivy green darts into his soul and paralyzed him, rid him of coherent thought. He'd never had that feeling before. Just remembering it made him shiver.  
  
He paced the room like a caged wolf eyeing the window as if it were a poacher.  
  
He willed his hand to have form and struck at the glass. It only rattled while his semi-tangible fist passed through it almost clear to the other side before he threw himself down to arrest his momentum. The infuriating idea that the only place of existence for him was within the confines of his father's house haunted him even through his short episodes when he craved oblivion.  
  
Quatre rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes, then he had a thought.  
  
He picked himself up onto his knees and willed his fingers to have form. In the undisturbed portions of the dusty floor, he began to write.  
  
At the bust stop the next morning, everything was as it had been before they had entered the house. Duo was up to his antics and Heero and Wufei were back to subtly goading him on. They were all back to normal.  
  
Ofcourse, they hadn't seen what Trowa had seen.  
  
He looked anxiously at the house. He could swear to seeing faces in the windows, and puffs of breath fading and reappearing on the glass. The eyes that he felt shook his body and sapped the warmth from his very bones.  
  
The house was all eyes.  
  
When the bus arrived, Trowa nearly bowled over his companions to climb inside, to escape that thing.  
  
That sentinel.  
  
He walked with his friends as far as West Elm and Bailey. There, they all parted ways.  
  
He watched them all leave before he turned back.  
  
Trowa entered the house with some trepidation. It seemed to sigh when he took his first steps into the foyer.  
  
"Don't psyche yourself out," Trowa reminded himself pressing his palm to his forehead. "It's just a house."  
  
He picked his way through the hallways back to the same room he'd invaded just a day earlier. Empty, as he had expected. The internal disappointment that he felt was hard to surmount, and he just stood in the doorframe a few moments until his peripheral vision picked up the message on the floorboards.  
  
Farie Stranger,  
  
Please do not think me too forward when I tell you that I' am quite caught in admiration of your countenance.  
  
If you would please grace me with your name, I would be most grateful.  
  
Earnestly yours,  
  
An admirer  
  
Trowa paused a moment, then sat on his heels and wrote, Trowa.  
  
He almost jumped out of his skin when the dust began to trace itself.  
  
It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Trowa.  
  
Trowa swallowed hard and scraped his index finger in the dust again, What are you?  
  
I have submitted to the understanding that, I must be dead.  
  
How did you die?  
  
I don't remember.  
  
That bad?  
  
I do not know.  
  
What is your name?  
  
I don't remember.  
  
Winner?  
  
Is that my name?  
  
Isn't it?  
  
I don't remember.  
  
Are there others like you in this house?  
  
Yes.  
  
How many?  
  
Of that, I have no inkling.  
  
Do you remember anything?  
  
My memory since before yesterday is incomplete.  
  
Trowa heaved a heavy sigh, Are you real? Or an ingenious personification of my idle mind?  
  
It took a moment for the phantom to swirl its next words, I think…therefore, I am. I must be. However, if it were to be that I exist only as a figment of your imagination, I am content.  
  
Trowa closed his eyes and considered for a moment before scribbling in the dust again, I've just had an idea. If you are able to write in the dust, I should be able to feel you. Since we've just met, lets shake hands. He stuck his hand out surprisingly steady for how drunken with dopamine and other coping mechanisms he felt.  
  
At first it felt like static that slowly solidified into the feel of fingers that barely brushed his skin. He screwed his eyes closed and began to breath hard when he felt those fingers push past his skin.  
  
He could only stand the strange sensation for so long before he jerked his hand back. "H-holy shit…" he said flexing his fingers. His bones still resonated with the electric hum of the ghost fingers' caress. "You're real."  
  
A door slammed upstairs.  
  
Already jittery to the point of utter hysteria, Trowa jumped to his feet like a startled cat and got the hell out of that house as fast as his legs would carry him.  
  
Outside, the sun was already setting, and the moon could already be seen rising on the opposite side of the sky. Trowa stared at it a moment, and then looked back at the house he had so recently vacated. A smile seemed to trace across its front at having expunged him so quickly. He half expected to hear laughter from it.  
  
It crossed his mind to say something, some verbal assurance to himself that he wasn't going crazy, but the only thing he could manage to get past his lips was a monosyllabic, "Shit."  
  
The house shuddered in the wake of Trowa's hasty exit.  
  
Papers shuffled and filed themselves in the study upstairs, and soft voices began to penetrate the gloom of the house.  
  
Quatre settled his spirit at the windowsill and watched Trowa's retreating shadow.  
  
"Fare thee well gentle stranger borne like a blessing into the night, nary from thy form my heart should waver, it is as constant as the sun…" Quatre improvised pressing his open palm against the glass. An unreasoning hope played upon the strings of his heart that, perhaps, if he wished hard enough, if his fingers pushed far enough through the window, he might be able to capture that boy. To stop him in his tracks and draw him near once more.  
  
Gentle laughter from one of the upstairs rooms drew his attention. He gazed questioningly at the ceiling and thought that, for a moment, he could hear the footfalls of a young lady dancing.  
  
"Welcome home," Catherine was barely able to say as Trowa entered through the front door before he was holed up inside his room.  
  
He set his backpack down next to his bed, kicked off his shoes, and then sat. While he sat, he didn't think of anything in particular, though his face appeared pensive. Unconsciously, he ran his hands over each other as if trying to restore feeling in them.  
  
After a while of sitting semi-comatose, he had what he thought to be an epiphany, but turned out to be hunger. Grudgingly, he hauled himself up and made for the kitchen. In the doorframe to his room, he turned to glance out the window. It wasn't snowing. The clouds hung in the sky dark and pregnant with precipitation. They stretched languidly from house to house, breaking from here to there allowing the moon to wink out from behind them.  
  
Trowa didn't return to the house for some time.  
  
Over the weekend, he didn't go anywhere near it.  
  
On Sunday, he spent the day with Duo, Heero, and Wufei shooting empty bottles off fence-posts. He'd never discharged a firearm in his life before that day, but caught the hang of it quickly. He learned quickly to overcome the recoil and fire off rounds quickly, his accuracy proving with each round until he eventually hit all the bottles without error.  
  
Duo was like a one-man cheerleading squad singing praises from behind and clapping with each burst bottle.  
  
It would have been a lie to say that he didn't enjoy the attention. Trowa's aim improved partially due to the encouragement and the desire to surpass Heero and Wufei with their marksmanship. Duo was good, but, his preoccupation with showmanship made him miss a few times.  
  
It was Trowa's last turn. Duo set the bottles, then took his place a considerable distance behind the shooter with Heero and Wufei.  
  
Aim and fire, aim and fire, Trowa popped off slug after slug until he came to the last target, which made him jerk, and his last shot to go off in some other direction.  
  
"What's wrong?" Duo called, but Trowa couldn't answer.  
  
Not truthfully, in any case.  
  
He could have sworn that he'd seen, in the crosshairs of his aim, the phantom cowering holding bloodied hands up in front of his face. After his misfire, the phantom disappeared, and he was left with his mouth ajar staring at a lone green bottle sitting squat on the fence.  
  
"Whatever that was," Wufei began to say.  
  
"It sucked," Heero finished.  
  
No one was home when he got there. It was the first time since he'd moved to Virginia that Cathy wasn't there. It made things easier for him, though. He dragged a chair back from the kitchen table and parked himself in it.  
  
He couldn't shake the image from his head.  
  
He'd left the guys back there. He'd flipped the safety back on the gun and shoved it into Heero's hands before stalking off back in the general direction of home. At this point, they probably didn't need him to reveal to them his freaky ghost experiences for them to think that he was nuts.  
  
He took a deep breath and drummed his fingers on the lacquered table setting his thoughts to a metronome.  
  
Maybe when he'd left before, he'd left that ghost in some sort of peril. Did that mean he had to go back?  
  
Outside the window, the last rays of the run were chasing the hills in the west. The house would be shrouded in shadow soon.  
  
He'd have to take a generous shot of courage to go out as things were now.  
  
His curiosity and mental well-being would have to be put off until tomorrow.  
  
TBC 


	3. III

Trowa fairly tip-toed into the house Monday afternoon.  
  
Around his neck hung a cross necklace that he'd found in an old junk box in the garage, and in his backpack he carried a heavy-duty flashlight and a CD player. He was fairly sure that the cross wouldn't do anything useful, but superstition prevailed over his better senses. The flashlight was for all the rummaging he planned to do. The CD player was to filter undesirable noises from scaring the bejeesus out of him.  
  
He made a straight path up to Quatre's room and began his snoop-fest.  
  
There wasn't much to be found superficially aside from a good collection of books in the bookshelves, a mirror and pressed flower book in the nightstand drawer, and a neatly folded wardrobe of musty clothes.  
  
A small voice in the back of his head goaded Trowa to move the hulking armoire. It seemed insensible and not just a little unkind to his back, but he braced himself and pushed it a few feet from its dust shadow. He could hear hollow boarding underneath the scraping paws of the oversized dresser and got down on all fours to figure out how to get inside the floor.   
  
He felt around deftly with his fingertips until he detected a slight imperfection in the wood planking. Carefully, he traced the line he found forming a neat square in the settled dust. His fingers wouldn't fit between the boards, that much was obvious, so he sat back and looked around spotting a thin stream of glinting light behind the armoire. He crept over to it and felt behind it, his fingers grasping a thin brass wire that he extracted and tested between the boards. It slid between them perfectly.  
  
Gently, he probed between the boards that he had traced with his finger and turned it so that the hook on the end would catch.  
  
It took more effort than he would have liked, but eventually the boards groaned as they were popped out of place, and he was able to set them aside. The hole left in the floor was dark and sighing and Trowa deigned to reach into it.  
  
He took the flashlight from his backpack and turned it on the darkness. A shudder ran through him as the light touched on a swathe of cobwebs that seemed to extend down into forever. There was a visible object shrouded in the ivory silk, so, Trowa grit his teeth and dove his hand in resisting the hardwired repulsion he felt as the gum-like strands caught on his skin. He almost jumped for joy when his hand closed around the soft edges of an oblong box. Leather?  
  
He yanked it out and fastidiously went about sweeping clinging cobwebs off of it and himself.  
  
He turned the object on its side and unhooked the metal buckles that held it shut. When he opened it, he almost bit his tongue.  
  
There was no doubt in his mind that the violin he was presently gaping at had to be a hellier stradivarius. He'd never actually seen one, but, he knew that what he was looking at was it.  
  
A cold sweat washed over his skin with the prevading knowledge that a violin of the sort that he was currently holding in his hands was worth enough American fiat to make Solomon blush and paper money look like moonfloss. He felt troubled. Even more troubled than the first meeting when he saw the specter melt into thin air.  
  
With a terrified reverence, he replaced the lid on the violin case and fastened the buckles in place.  
  
Then, he wedged the boards back in place and slid the armoire over them. His curiosity felt duly sated for the moment. He didn't know if he could stomach any more discovery.  
  
Holding the case to his chest like an invalid child, he picked his way downstairs afraid to move too fast for fear of falling to a gruesome unpleasant death.  
  
Like a zombie, without thinking, without reason, he wandered into the ghost's room.  
  
It was waiting for him by the window, that boy. His form flickered and extinguished before Trowa could even blink.  
  
"Hello," Trowa mumbled dutifully as he set the violin case down over the other day's conversation. "Is this yours?" He stepped back a few paces, not knowing what to expect.  
  
The case opened itself, the sound of the leather creaking against itself sending shivers up Trowa's spine. The bow was taken from the lining of the case, and the lax strands of horse hair lifted and tightened by the will of an invisible force. From an easily overlooked pocket, a block of rosin appeared and then was drawn accross the hair of the bow. Gently, the two were set down as the violin was lifted from the case. It floated in nothingness as the pegs winding the ancient cat-gut strings turned. The strings pizzicato-ed themselves, and the knobs turned more.  
  
When everything seemed right, the violin flew up to an invisible shoulder and the bow was taken into an invisible hand.  
  
Trowa had to grip the doorframe for support when the first notes of Vivaldi's "Winter Allegro" pierced the air.  
  
"...omfg," Trowa whispered vehemently under his breath, his teeth chattering.  
  
Something about a violin playing itself without special effects no more than five feet away from him didn't sit well with his constitution. He cupped a hand over his mouth, physically denying the giddy nausea that tickled his throat.  
  
When the piece ended, he clapped weakly feeling completely drained even though he hadn't done anything particularly strenuous in the duration of the playing.  
  
"Thank you," an airy tenor complimented the quiet, effectively killing Trowa's pathetic applause.  
  
"You talk, now?" Trowa asked.  
  
"You can hear me?" the voice was omniprescent.  
  
"Seen you twice, heard you once," Trowa replied, perturbed. "Speaking of which, why can't I see you now?"  
  
There was a breath of silence, then, "...It's embarrassing."  
  
"What've you got to be embarrassed of?" Trowa prodded.  
  
"I may be ugly," the voice said, shrinking.  
  
Trowa's eyes widened a moment, then he replied tersely, "I think you should let me be the judge of that. Besides which, it's a little weird talking to something I can't see. Makes me feel like I'll have to haul my own ass to the looney bin."  
  
Something in the upstairs office fell with a resounding thunk against the floor, and Trowa was ready to leave.  
  
"Don't go!" the voice implored him. "I will show you if you stay."  
  
Trowa relaxed himself as much as he could, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms tense across his chest.   
  
He raised a brow, waiting.  
  
The outline of the young boy traced itself in the air, then two bright blue orbs, where his eyes would be, fitted themselves into his nonexistent skull.  
  
"Jesus," Trowa cursed under his breath averting his gaze from the extremely creepy sight. When he looked up again, the boy was mostly formed, his colors attaining a pale richness. His hands were clasped together in front of himself and his eyes downcast.  
  
"Don't lower your head like that," Trowa muttered self-consciously. "You look fine."  
  
Reluctantly, the boy raised his eyes, their piercing luminescence seemed to light the room.  
  
For a moment, all Trowa could do was stare. The etch a sketch in his head was being upgraded to a photo lab.  
  
When he remembered to breathe, he couldn't help asking, "Are you an angel?"  
  
The warmest expression overtook the ghost's features as he shook his head, "No. No, I am not."  
  
"Could've fooled me," Trowa replied, then took a moment to brood affronted by his own lameness and berating himself for flirting with a ghost.  
  
"Are you an angel?" the spirit asked back his eyes alight with a vivacious energy that intoxicated Trowa and compelled him to reciprocate.  
  
"Only if you are," he teased, a half smile curling his lips.  
  
The ghost's smile increased two-fold as he ran a hand through his goldspun hair. "Kindly keep your charms to yourself, Mr. Trowa," he parried playfully.  
  
"You first," Trowa grinned dumbly.  
  
The ghost laughed, the bell-like quality of it drowning out the sounds coming from upstairs.  
  
It took a moment to recover from the moment, then there was a short spell of silence as Trowa grasped for something to say.  
  
Then, he remembered the violin.  
  
He pointed at it and tried to ask in an unawkward fashion, "So, where'd you get a Hellier?"  
  
"Pardon?" the ghost replied.  
  
"That's a hellier stradivarius, right?" Trowa inquired.  
  
"Oh, yes," the ghost said touching his fingers nervously to his lips, staring at the instrument at his feet as if it would pipe up and tell him the answers to his own past. "...I like the violin," he said finally at a loss for anything else to say.  
  
Trowa regarded him sympathetically. There was no deciet in the boy, and he looked genuinely upset.  
  
He was about to apologize when the ghost asked quietly, "What year is this?"  
  
"Are you sure that you want to know?" Trowa subtly discouraged him.  
  
The ghost smiled, a sad smile, "I do not believe that it will be any less of a shock to me tomorrow than it will be today."  
  
Trowa chewed on that a minute before saying, "Two-thousand-five."  
  
The ghost nodded, "That is an unfamilliar figure."  
  
"I'd imagine so," Trowa agreed.  
  
"Thank god, it doesn't mean anything to me," the ghost said laughing it off. "I've been dead a while, I imagine."  
  
"Somewhere in the neighborhood of two-hundred-something years," Trowa helped him to clarify.  
  
The smile fell. "Oh," the ghost managed to utter. "I suppose...I would be an old man, then."  
  
"You look suprisingly well for your age," Trowa quipped, trying to lighten the mood.  
  
The ghost gave him a sober smile, his lips pressed together, and his eyes only mildly amused.  
  
That smile caved as well as a loud thump reverberated above their heads. The ceiling shuddered sprinkling dust down. It fell right through the ghost but made a nice deposit on Trowa's stunned head. He looked to the ghost for some reassurance, but he seemed about as curious as himself at the moment, staring up morosely at the noises.  
  
"Is there someone else here?" Trowa asked tersely.  
  
The ghost looked at him calmly, "I told you there," he said indicating with his fingers their conversation from a few days earlier.  
  
"That's them? Not someone like me, right?" Trowa demanded quietly.  
  
"They never come here, only Rashid," the ghost replied smiling placatingly, the hypnotic beauty of his eyes easing Trowa into a lull.  
  
It took a little struggle to shake himself free from it, "Rashid?"  
  
"He lives on the first floor," the ghost assured Trowa in what he felt to be a comforting way. "Perhaps you will meet him sometime?"  
  
"If he's like you, I'll consider it," Trowa replied apprehensively.  
  
The ghost smiled easily, "Don't worry so. If you're afraid, I'll protect you."  
  
Feeling reassured and a little mean, Trowa replied, "With that scrawny body?" Though he throughly appreciated that "scrawny body."  
  
"When it's between you and them," the ghost nodded upwards, "I do not suspect that I will see you complaining."  
  
Trowa smiled crookedly, "I don't suppose so."  
  
Outside the window, the last rays of the sun crested the horizon.  
  
"It's getting late," Trowa said with a little reluctance. He shifted his weight uneasily on his feet. "Want me to hide that for you?" he asked pointing at the violin case. "That's really valueable, and some unscrupulous people could try to steal it."  
  
"If you think that it would be best," the ghost replied gazing at the instrument forlornly.  
  
"I'll come back tomorrow," Trowa promised toeing the floor with his sneaker. He felt nervous, and embarrassed, and weird. Why was he trying to impress himself upon this ghost? Someone he couldn't really touch, that couldn't grow old with him, and couldn't meet his "folks."  
  
"I will look forward to it," the ghost smiled at him unabashedly.  
  
"I'll bring you some books, or something," Trowa said, nodding to himself unconsciously, his more base brain facilities trying to bolster his confidence in his sanity.  
  
"I would appreciate that very much," the ghost nearly whispered in his delight.  
  
Trowa stepped forward, took the case in one hand and waved goodbye to the ghost with the other.  
  
He could have sworn that he'd seen some deep ennui in the specter's eyes as he left, but it could have just been his wishful imaginings that he would be wanting with his leaving.  
  
Replacing the violin where he'd found it happened without incident.  
  
It was when he was about when he was halfway down the stairs that it happened.  
  
There was a loud thunderous stomping behind him as if a horse had taken up chase behind him. The banister began to rattle and the paneling beneath him groaned and popped under the strain of the beast Trowa had neither the prescence nor the desire to see.  
  
He ran for all he was worth.  
  
About four steps to the ground floor, a gust of force hit his back and sent him down the rest of the way.  
  
He landed huddled on his side, and took the opportunity to glance back at from whence he had come.  
  
There was nothing there.  
  
The stairs were silent and still.  
  
More angry than he was afraid, he pushed off from the floor and dusted himself off, readjusted his backpack, and left.  
  
TBC...  
  
note(s):  
  
1. Springbreak is soon! Just imagining what I can do with all that extra time makes me drool  
  
2. Sorry if I'm making the characters go OOC. It's not my intention; Trowa seems to be more sociable than he ought to be...oh well, things change  
  
3. Stradivarius is a really really frickin' famous violin series made back in the something century. Their sound is supposed to be the best. A Hellier Stradivarius is supposed to have ornate engravings on it, at least, from my understanding. 


	4. IV

Trowa couldn't concentrate.  
  
His notes from history class were just a collection of errant scribbles and dark smudges.  
  
His pre-cal homework was non-existent.  
  
His english essay was a heaping pile of shit.  
  
His written physics experiment defied the laws of physics.  
  
And his over-packed lunch was in the process of being shredded by his negligent fork.  
  
He almost lost it when a hand hovered over his to still it. It was Duo.  
  
"Y'know...We're all aware and stuff that you're not a heavy eater, but that doesn't mean you gotta masticate the damn stuff with your silverware," Duo said turning his concerned eyes on his recent friend.  
  
"I'm sorry?" Trowa replied a little off kilter.  
  
"That was maccaroni and cheese, wasn't it?" Duo indicated the orangish goop in the tupper under Trowa's hand.  
  
Trowa looked down, "Oh yeah." He pushed it away, "You want it?"  
  
"Sure," Duo grinned sliding it over to himself.  
  
"That's gross, Duo," Heero made a face of distaste at the grits-like consistency of the meal he'd just adopted.  
  
Duo's grin grew especially wide as he shoveled an overflowing spoonful into his mouth, "Tastes the same!" Then he proceeded to make humming sounds of contentment just as Wufei arrived to sit down with them.  
  
"Having an orgasm?" he remarked taking his seat to Heero's right.  
  
"Oh god," Duo moaned. "It's so good!" He smacked his palms on the table to emphasize his point.  
  
"Well," Wufei sighed pushing the food around his tray, "I've lost my appetite."  
  
"Ditto," Heero said mirroring Wufei's actions.  
  
Trowa seemed off in his own world staring blankly ahead of himself at some faraway place that no one else could see but him. He didn't even register his friends' rude exchange. The only thing on his mind at that moment was that ghost. There had to be a reason he'd met him, if only he could figure it out. There was always a reason for weird shit. It was an unspoken but well known law of nature.  
  
He saw the ghost's smile in his thoughts, his invisible fingers dancing accross the neck of the violin making it sing, and his eyes, those burning lights that had stolen his breath away, never to return again. Absently, he chewed his inner lip finding some theraputic release in it.  
  
What to do...  
  
He was only roused from his reverie when the incessant cloud of banter around him came to an abrupt halt. Looking up, and around, he noticed two girls standing next to Duo and himself. They weren't looking at them, though, their boy-toy darts were aimed at Heero.  
  
Trowa knew he'd seen these two ladies somewhere before, but couldn't place them or their names.  
  
The one with dark-blond hair spoke first, cooties coating every one of her words, "Heero, may we sit with you?"  
  
Heero leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, lifting his chin, and sniffing with brevity. It was universal man language that Trowa recognized immediately as extreme displeasure. Some girls mistook it for contemplation, but, usually, when a guy orients his body like that, his mind has already been made up.  
  
"Relena," he began.  
  
She perked up.  
  
"No," he finished succinctly, and though he wasn't hungry; he took up his fork and stabbed at his food to show her that he was done.  
  
"Please?" she pleaded.  
  
"What part of 'no' don't you understand?" he drawled.  
  
Relena pouted, her lower lip sucked into her mouth, as she stared at him a moment more before her friend guided her away.  
  
"Do you have to be so mean to her?" Duo remarked watching the girls dissapear into the cafeteria crowd.  
  
"I've told her 'no' before. You'd think she'd be used to it by now," Heero muttered vehemently.  
  
"Girls are stupid," Wufei sympathized.  
  
"Amen," Heero agreed.  
  
"Still," Duo said, "you've gotta feel bad for her. She can't help that she likes ya."  
  
"It's a phase," Heero stated starkly. "Lets let it die in peace."  
  
"The sooner the better," Wufei added.  
  
Duo's smile went crooked, and Trowa couldn't decide whether he was upset or not, but then, it evened out, and he said in his casually dismissal fashion, "I guesso."  
  
"Are you coming, Tro?" Duo asked leaning on the locker next to his. Wufei and Heero were already waiting by the double doors at the end of the hall.  
  
"I can't, I'm sorry," Trowa replied. "I have to go pick some things up from the store."  
  
"We can go with you," Duo offered.  
  
"That's okay," Trowa assured him.  
  
"Alrighty then," Duo said. "See you tomorrow."  
  
He joined up with Heero and Wufei and left.  
  
Trowa rifed through his books one last time before he shut his locker and headed off.  
  
He'd purchased a cartload of periodicals, novels, and textbooks that set him back a little over a hundred-dollars.  
  
He still recieved an allowance from Nate, even though he was no longer his guardian. Fifty dollars a month for surplus expenditures and for putting away into a savings account. The details, he left up to Trowa.  
  
Trowa already had a college savings account in the neighborhood of twenty-thousand dollars. Normally, most of the money he got from Nate went into that account, but, today, he'd actually withdrawn from it to splurge on a person that wasn't even copreal.  
  
The words, "I'm crazy" crossed his mind once or twice, actually, more than that, as he paid for his things and hefted them to the house on West Elm.  
  
The door wouldn't open at first. He had to set down his things and put his weight into it, to get it open even a crack. Then it slammed shut on him. He pulled at it again, and it shut again. The snow under his shoes packed down into ice the harder and harder he tried to open the door until, finally, the traction on his sneakers iced over and his body experienced a disorienting moment of zero gravity before he landed on his back with a muffled thud.  
  
He slowly picked himself up into sitting, then kicked the ice off his shoes before he stood on them again.  
  
Muttering curses under his breath, he picked his stuff up and leaned against a rail to think for a moment.  
  
Something didn't want him in that house, and that thing was mobile. He could feel the malevolence seeping out of the house, running down it's ancient exterior like a festering pus and collecting in puddles on the creaky floorboards for Trowa to fall into.  
  
He took a minute or two to remind himself why he had returned, (a) he had made a promise, (b) he was crazy, and (c) he'd spent a lot of money.  
  
With lukewarm satisfaction that he'd made the case to himself, he remembered the window that the cats had come from and went seeking it out.  
  
"Curiosity killed the cat," his mind repeated to him like a mantra as he looked into each windowed room. He had the suspicion that one day his death would be due to his insatiable inquisitive nature and not a natural old-man-in-bed death. Even now, he was fairly sure that he was in mortal danger from some beyond the grave force, but that came only secondary to his over-eager mind.  
  
The idiot in him congratulated him when he found the right window and had a fit of glee when said window yielded easily under his questing hands. For some reason, this room seemed safe to him. He stuffed his things inside before hoisting himself up and in.  
  
It surprised him only a moment when he came face to face with the ghost, still on all fours from when he'd crawled in.  
  
The ghost was crouched and leaning on his haunches looking at Trowa curiously, a smile teasing the edges of his slightly open mouth. "You look like a cat," he commented after a pause.  
  
"You look like a ghost," Trowa countered lamely, but was still rewarded with a smile.  
  
"You've brought books?" the ghost asked looking eagerly at the large bag with a few volumes peeking out.  
  
"Go nuts," Trowa said waving him off. "They're for you."  
  
"Weren't they expensive?" the ghost whispered in excited awe already turning one over in his hands.  
  
"Not really," Trowa replied sitting next to him. "Times have changed."  
  
"I want to read all about it," the ghost declared and Trowa could tell that he meant it.  
  
"Then read," Trowa teased reorienting himself and resting his back against the windowed wall.  
  
"Should I read aloud?" the ghost asked holding up a newspaper.  
  
"Sure."  
  
The ghost set the paper down in front of himself and began to read.  
  
"Civil Unrest in Iran: the Ayatollah pressured to Abdicate..."  
  
The sun was already gone by the time Trowa made it home that night.  
  
Cathy was sitting on the couch with a knitting project she'd picked up shortly after his initial arrival. It was a pale colored crochet that was growing into some sort of blanket. She'd explained it to him before, but he didn't remember very well.   
  
The evidence of his neglect bit at him.  
  
She wasn't even looking at him.  
  
Though he craved to go dump himself in his room and make some sense of his seriously messed up life, he set his keys on the counter and joined her on the couch.  
  
It was soft and cradled him as he laid down on it and dutifully planted his head in her lap, silently demanding her attention. He had little to no experience in familial interaction, but it seemed the right thing to do. And it seemed to work.  
  
Dumbfounded, Cathy set her knitting aside and started stroking his hair. "Are you alright?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm okay," Trowa replied his eyes closing partially so that he saw a narrow strip of the coffee table and the opposite wall, the cappucino color bringing a warm ambience into the room, similar to his adoptive sister, in a way, such a warm person.  
  
"Are you okay?" Trowa asked turning his head a little.  
  
"If you are, then I am," Cathy replied flicking his nose.  
  
"Don't do that," Trowa complained annoyedly turning his face into her lap.  
  
She smelled the way a mother should.  
  
"If you don't like it, don't leave yourself open to it," Cathy teased poking his side provoking an immediate recoil.  
  
"Stop," Trowa whined.  
  
"But it's so fun," Cathy grinned poking him more.  
  
Trowa groaned in perfect vexation and caught her hand holding it over his shoulder.  
  
"Don't make me get up," he mumbled digging himself deeper into the couch.  
  
"You can't sleep on the couch," Cathy complained.  
  
"Watch me," Trowa countered.  
  
"You can't sleep on me," she protested.  
  
"Too late," Trowa replied, stifling a yawn.  
  
"Fine, grumpus," she retorted extracting her hand and taking her knitting back up.  
  
It amazed Trowa how fast and completely his worries washed away the moment he sat down next to Cathy. Every time her fingers had run through his hair, another problem had been combed away. After all of his troubles were sifted out, all he was left with was fatigue.  
  
This, he reasoned, was the power of family, as he succumbed to sleep.  
  
As for Catherine, she'd been plenty upset that he had come home late, and even more upset at his habitual mum, but was willing to let all of that go in lieu of the moment. She'd been waiting for sixteen years for this, and damned if she'd ruin it by being bitter over petty, easily explainable things. As long as he came home to her (and occasionally greeted her like this), she'd be content.  
  
"I thought I'd never see you again," she whispered to his sleeping visage. An errant tear traced the contours of her cheek, "It's fine if you don't remember who I am, you were only a baby at the time. I remember you, and that's all that matters."  
  
She dried her eyes on her work-in-progress and then continued to crochet well into the night.  
  
For the first time in a long time, Quatre didn't feel the need to drown his nilistic existence in dreamless sleep. He poured over the books that Trowa had given him, his mind sponging at all the information the volumes contained. Texts on history, boring to most people, were thrilling to him. The world he had been so cut off from for so long, he was finally catching up to.  
  
"I love you, Mr. Trowa," he declared excitedly under his breath, his eyes roving the pages of history he had existed through, but never actually seen.  
  
The door behind him opened.  
  
Rashid stood in the doorframe a moment wondering at the way his ward seemed so happy. It had been such a long time, an unchartable amount of time, since he'd seen that kind of a face. The inquisitive glint in those eyes, and the grim line of childish concentration on his lips. His young master seemed more complete than he was accustomed to seeing him.  
  
Carefully, he backed out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind himself.  
  
Quatre's fingers traced each line that he read, his own natural luminescence making visible the words otherwise obscured by nighttime darkness.  
  
Trowa, "the grumpus," was woken early Wednesday morning on the recieving end of a Catherine instigated poke-fest.  
  
Disoriented, and extremely uncomfortable, he tried to protect himself and scoot off the couch at the same time, suceeding in a pathetic dead-man's roll, landing him dazed and confused face-up on the floor.  
  
"I'm up," he said weakly.  
  
"Gooood," Catherine grinned at him from behind the couch. "You have practice today."  
  
Scowling, Trowa raised his left arm and pulled back his sleeve. His watch read: 5:04AM.  
  
Swallowing his resentment and bitter morning breath, he groped for the couch cushion and hauled himself up as Catherine skipped, rather chipper, into the kitchen.  
  
He was fifteen minutes early.  
  
He was little more awake by the time he got to school than when he'd first rolled off the couch.  
  
Yawning through clentched teeth, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he made his way wearily to the band hall.  
  
Soon, though, his ears perked up to the faint sounds of a violin. Straining to hear it, he followed the sounds to the orchestra hall on the opposite side of the electives building. Covering one last yawn, he peered in through the windowed door.  
  
Alone and sitting on the elevated teacher's platform was Wufei in pinstriped pants and a button-down shirt with a cello.  
  
Not a violin.  
  
A little disappointed, and at the same time impressed, Trowa was about to leave when something bright caught his eye.  
  
He squinted and blinked harshly, then dropped his jaw.  
  
Next to Wufei, the ghost was playing a weeping violin in compliment to the deeper, more somber sounds of the cello. His eyes were closed, and his body swayed a little as if the notes of music were lifting off the paper and caressing him. He looked more robust and sure of himself than Trowa had ever seen him before. Was he looking at an echo?  
  
When the piece ended, the apparition vanished along with its haunting melody.  
  
Wufei took a water bottle from his backpack and drank it dry. Then, he got up, presumably, to fill it in the fountain outside, setting his cello down lovingly on its side before making to leave.  
  
Trowa panicked and hauled ass out of there before Wufei's fingers so much as graced the door handle.  
  
TBC... 


End file.
